Girl from a Faraway Place
by BigBoss3
Summary: "Haven't you ever, for a single moment, wanted to watch it all burn?" She shook her head, tears spilling freely. "Why would I ever want such a thing?"
1. Chapter 1

_**I don't own the Dark Knight!**_

* * *

"Do you think she'll be alright here?"

The old man looked out thoughtfully at the lighted cityscape of Gotham, hands clasped behind his back.

"I mean, for the time being."

"Who can say? We don't really know her anymore. She doesn't know this city."

Ice clinked together in the glass dangling haphazardly from Bruce Wayne's hand. "I was looking for some validation, Alfred. I need it."

"You'll take validation, but my advice has always fallen on plugged ears, Master Bruce." He paused, turning from the window to look at the man that he couldn't forget as a boy. "She's been tucked away for nine years, without her brother."

Bruce huffed, sipping his drink with indignation burning in eyes. "Not by blood, mind you."

"No blood between us, Master Bruce. It never caused me to care less."

"Yeah, and I didn't mean it like that," he replied quickly. Alfred smiled.

"I know. Just...be the family that she deserves, and protect her with everything you have."

* * *

Being in the limousine was strange. The leather interior was impeccable, the air fresh inside, the driver courteous, but it made her feel small and self-conscious.

She didn't look like someone who needed to be shuffled around in luxury vehicles or offered champagne.

Her lips pursed and cold guilt flooded her.

She did _try_ it, only out of curiosity.

And she continued to _try_ it once the anxiety of being back home and forever away from the boarding school became stifling.

"I'll have to hide the bottle," she murmured to herself, afraid that Bruce would think she was a certain type of girl.

The years between them, the years apart; was it going to be different? How much had he changed? Who was she now, in his eyes?

The girl shook her head, dark hair swishing about her heated cheeks.

Those thoughts would only make things worse. Instead, she peered out from the darkened window and took in the city she'd been sent from years ago. It might as well have been a completely new territory. Nothing was familiar, everything large and tall and bright and fast-moving.

Lost in the bustle, she jumped when the driver lowered the window between them.

"We're just about there, Miss Wayne." He was a younger man. Dark hair and dancing eyes. She immediately looked down at her lap, blushing.

 _She hadn't been around many men._

Then the limousine was stopping and he was opening the door for her. "We're here, Miss Wayne." He smiled down at her, showing off a dimple.

"Please, just India."

* * *

"Sir, there's a woman here for you. She uh, she says that she's family?"

"I'll be right down."

Bruce hung up the phone and sighed.

He couldn't start doubting his decisions, especially with India right there in the lobby, waiting. Alfred had strongly suggested setting her up elsewhere when she arrived, instead of meeting her right at the Enterprise building. At the time, it sounded ridiculous.

But he'd been drinking. Brooding. Exercising his stubbornness. Now, the whole building would soon know of the billionaire's hidden sister. Then the press.

 _Then perhaps, his enemies._

He stood hastily, straightening his tailored suit with robotic movements he'd made innumerable times.

Time slowed in the bright hallway, nearly crept to a halt in the elevator.

He saw her as soon as the polished doors yawned open, sitting in a corner chair, watching the world move around her at a speed that clearly fascinated her.

She was not a boisterous child anymore. Somehow, she'd become a woman that could stop most men in their tracks with a single glance.

Bruce had to keep the elevator doors from closing with his hand before stepping out slowly and moving towards her.

The receptionist gave him an expectant smile. An intern carrying a full tray of coffees nearly ran right into him. A smartly-dressed woman winked as he passed. He was blind to it all.

Then he was mere feet from her.

"India." Her wide, earthy eyes moved to him and when she smiled, Bruce was blinded by the memories that flashed warm and bright in his mind. His adopted sister rose up slowly, looking at him with unbridled love.

"Oh. Oh, Bruce…"

Her embrace was warm and desperate. He could feel her tremble against him. Ignoring her softness was incredibly difficult.

"It's been too long, kid," he laughed out awkwardly. India didn't seem to notice, pulling away to beam up at him.

Some of her freckles had faded, but a peppering still remained high on her cheeks and nose. The unruly hair that never had a decent brushing throughout her adolescence now framed her face and fell down her back in silken waves. Her green eyes seemed almost oversized years ago. Now, they sat sparkling beneath heavy lids and sooty lashes.

"It's been just...forever," she whispered breathily. "I can't believe I'm here." Bruce smiled, pulling his lingering hands from the small of her back.

"Me neither," he replied, trying desperately to keep composed. "Are you hungry? I know a place just down the block. Or maybe you'd like to rest?"

"A place that you know sounds wonderful, Bruce."

* * *

They had walked down the lively sidewalks of Gotham, India's arm latched in the crook of his own, to a small but posh café on a corner. She'd insisted on going without the limousine. The mild weather complimented them.

Bruce felt that they blended in well enough with the many patrons; couples sipping coffee, old money looking over wine lists. Their table was near the front, situated next to a window that allowed India a full view of city life.

"It's very loud here," She mused, hands fidgeting with a sleeve of her modest tan dress. "In Gotham, I mean."

"You get used to it." Bruce sipped his tumbler of top-shelf gin. "I'm guessing it's quite different from your school." India smiled sheepishly.

"Very different. Crickets instead of sirens."

"Miss it already, kid?"

"N-no! It's just, well, like you said. Different." She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, cheeks suddenly pink. "Anyway, I want to hear about what you've been doing all this time. Much more interesting, I should think."

Bruce felt his body tense for a moment. The internal script was there, but his tongue suddenly felt dry and useless. Another sip of gin.

 _All for the best. She can never know._

"Running the company. Believe me, not so very interesting."

"Oh, I think it is," she chirped, a small hand reaching up to tuck back a troublesome strand of hair. He drank in the gesture like he had his gin.

"I tried to keep up on things while I was away. One of the sisters was kind enough to have the Gotham newspapers sent to the school for me." Her brow furrowed. "It sounds like, um...like there are a lot of dangerous people here."

She was scared.

"Every big city has its fair share of crime," he said nonchalantly, a reassuring smile plastered to his face in a manner which he assumed was very cheesy. India didn't respond. He knew what she was thinking about.

"Things are better here, since Mom and-"

An explosion stopped him short.


	2. Chapter 2

Her world was suddenly on fire. She couldn't breathe, couldn't see. Something warm was pooling beneath her back.

India mustered together bits and pieces of strength and pulled herself up from the cafe floor, wincing as debris fell from her body.

"Bruce?" Her voice was a hoarse, pained whimper amid a cacophony of screaming and crackling heat. Fear was an unbearable weight against her chest, seemingly crushing the air from her lungs.

Rubbing frantically at her eyes, shapes began to form; what was left of the storefront, shadows fleeing about the street in panic. Flaming rubble.

Oh, god.

Bodies. Blood.

"Bruce!" Louder this time, as something made the ground shake violently.

 _She had to find him._

India took a step towards the ruined wall leading to the streets of Gotham, a hand reaching hesitantly to the middle of her back. Wet and sticky.

One foot in front of the other, just one and then the other…

Sirens cried in the distance, alarms wailed. The sidewalk was destroyed. A taxi was overturned against a streetlamp. She had no bearings or sense of direction and her brother was missing.

Footfalls behind her.

"Is there something wrong?"

India felt security hug her sweety. Someone to help her?

She turned dizzily towards the voice, stumbling on a chunk of unearthed concrete. Blood dripped from her wound and down a leg. She stared.

A clown. A horrible, twisted caricature of a clown. Dressed in purple, slouching slightly, just inches away. He smiled, and there was something so terribly wrong with that smile, India nearly wretched.

"Cat, uh, got that pretty little tongue, _hm_? Or maybe...daddy didn't teach you _manners_?" The tone of a schoolyard bully. Nasal. She opened her mouth to speak, lips quivering, eyes saucer-like. He held up a finger, ticking it back and forth. "Ah! Ah! I know, _see_? I know you uh, you're looking for someone? Hm, yeah?"

"I-I…"

"Big brother?" The clown's voice rose an octave, hands gesturing nonsensically. India began to back away. He moved forward. "Brave Bruce?"

Something beneath the crude red paint, stretching out from the corners of his mouth. Scars?

He chuckled, exhaling dramatically with great puffs. "Superficial, these." Gloved hands slapped the healed carvings. "I'll, uh, tell you how I got them later, maybe. Because! Right now, I want to help you, India! Help you find _Brother Dearest_!"

He was on her in a flash, gripping one arm with bruising force, free hand reaching to bunch up the scooped collar of her dress from the back. Searing pain rippled up her spine. He began to drag her down the sidewalk, amid chaos that she could never have imagined before, feet stumbling helplessly. Her hands worked in vain to push him away, gain freedom. She cried.

"Call out for him," The clown whispered, lips grazing her ear, "...or I'll practice my freehand on your face!"

India felt herself begin to fade, vision darkening in a world already blocked and shaded from the sun. The clown shook her violently, leading them into the street.

"You _stay_ awake! Call for brother!" He leaned into her back, acting as a column that kept her from falling to the cement. She swallowed, throat dry and gritty.

"Bruce?" Nothing more than a sigh.

"Louder!"

"Bruce, please!" Her cry echoed through the desolate block, and she felt her captor nod approvingly, his cheek rubbing up and down against her own. Nausea rolled inside of her.

"Good girl."

Just moments later, something stirred in the distance. A tall, dark shape, faded by the rolling smog.

 _Please let it be him, please save me…_

And it was. Despite the dusted, ruined suit, or disheveled hair, it was Bruce. He was just a quarter of the block away. She subconsciously moved towards him and was pulled back by her captor, practically dangling from his hold as he held her by his side like a prized fish. Her brother put his hands up in surrender.

"Oh _yes,_ little India Wayne, sent _faaaar_ away to a magical land, not to be shredded up by Gotham's sharp claws! Um, is _fortuitous_ the right term? Hm?"

She tried to pull away, ruined dress ripping from collar to hip. His hand released her and then, something hard and cold against her temple.

A gun.

"P-please-"

"Shut up, Princess!" The clown hissed, gaze never leaving her brother. "The adults are uh, talking." Bruce kept his hands in the air, still and stoic.

"You've done what you've set out to do. Let her go." Her brother's voice boomed over the mayhem, and she trembled with something unknown.

"Oh? What, _what_ was it that I set out to do again? See, I forgot!" His smile was menacing, greasepaint chipping around the crude scars.

"You'll get your TV spot. You'll be front page. Dent will-"

"No, no, _nope_!" He pushed the gun harder against India. She sobbed pitifully, one bruised hand holding together the remains of her dress.

"I was hoping my bestest friend in the _whole...wide...world_ would show up!" He looked up at the sky, exaggerated wonder turning his red mouth into an O. "I guess he doesn't give a shit about a little girl getting a bullet in the head."

Another explosion quaked the ground mercilessly. India lost her footing and fell to her knees. Shards of glass and rubble dug into her bare flesh, and the gun kept perfectly trained on her.

 _How many bombs could he possibly have?_

"I'm a musician! Hear that music? A symphony to be remembered! I can't, uh, play it just _once_ , can I?"

The heat of the fires made the wind pick up, blowing smoke and ash around them all with painful force.

"How about one last crescendo?"

"Let her go and take me-"

"One more triumphant blow! One more pull of the strings, Mr. Wayne!"

India heard a click and screamed.

And then darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

India found herself in a limbo, between the decimated cafe and untethered childhood recollections and clowns. Then to the soft cotton tucked around her body, and machines humming nearby.

The warm hand resting lightly on her own.

She opened her eyes there was Bruce, sitting by her side, looking off towards nothing. Her heart swelled, relief blooming warm inside her.

"Bruce?"

He looked down at her quickly, furrowed brow immediately smoothing.

"India." He smiled, leaning in close and brushing her hair back from her face. "How are you feeling?" She shifted against the hospital bed, bruised form resisting the movement.

 _Don't want him to worry._

"I'm fine," she whispered hoarsely. "Are you okay?"

"Don't worry about me, I'm alright." He paused, smiling reassuringly. "They said you can get out of here in a few days after your back heals."

India shivered, nearly felt the glass and rubble underneath her yet again.

"That man...he knew me."

"He can't-"

"Bruce, who is he?" She felt the beginnings of tears, tried her best to hold them back. "The explosions, the people!" Pain was a doubtful flicker as she rose up on her elbows.

"He's a criminal, and he can't hurt you and to make absolutely sure of that, I want you to go back to New Hampshire for a bit."

"No, I want to stay."

"It's _not_ up for debate." Tension coiled her spent muscles, and she pulled her hand from under his.

"I'm not a child, and I want the truth. Why was he after me?"

"The Joker-"

"Who?"

"The man in the clown makeup, India. He was just trying to make a statement, cause panic."

"By killing people?" She breathed unsteadily, trembled. "Holding a gun to my head?"

"Exactly why I want you to leave Gotham."

* * *

"I want her out of here as soon as possible." His knuckles were white as he held the phone to his ear, pacing up and down the hallway outside of India's room. It was well after midnight, the hospital quiet and nearly empty.

"Was hoping to see her again, Bruce. It's been years."

"Rachel, there is a gash on her back from hip to shoulder. That freak was throwing her around, baiting me. I should never have brought her back here!" He took in a breath, hand moving up to loosen his tie. "How did he know?"

"At this point, everyone does, and um...Harvey hasn't had the chance to reach out yet, but you and India are in his thoughts."

 _Holy shit._

"I don't think it's necessary for me to explain why that doesn't make me feel better, considering what I do." Rachel scoffed.

"Yeah, I suppose it isn't. She's willing to leave?"

"Why wouldn't she be?"

"Oh, come on. You can't force her, Bruce. I'd bet money that she's a lot stronger than you think. You are her brother."

"Not by blood."

"You sound cold."

"I don't mean it like that. I almost lost her."

"You should get some rest. Let this city figure itself out for once. India will be fine."

* * *

 _He didn't want her around._

That single thought tumbled around in her head until sleep was completely and utterly out of reach. Then, the pain medication began to leave her system, and despite the urge to call for a nurse, she turned in on herself. Inhaling deeply, letting out breath between clenched teeth. Adjusting herself endlessly in hopes that a different position would hurt less than the one before.

She cried for what felt like hours, until her cheeks were sticky and overheated.

 _The Joker._

It was all too unreal, too _ridiculous_. Some sort of horrible fever dream.

The sobs became exhausted sniffles, lids falling closed. One foot dipped into comforting unconsciousness, only to be yanked back.

There was a hand over her mouth, bare and warm and salty.

India's eyes snapped open, the blurry image of a man towering above nearly stopping her heart altogether. Before her body could react, both wrists were grabbed and forced above her head, hitting the upper rails of the bed with damaging force. Her pained yelp muffled against his hand.

A moment passed, maybe several, before she forced herself to look at her assaulter.

At first, In the orange glow of dimmed hospital lights, he looked normal, could even be considered handsome.

Ice cascaded through her veins.

Messy hair tinged green. Small, dark eyes. Scars, without the gruesome paint, bared for her to see. Botched, curling up from the corners of his thin lips.

"I, uh, promised you a story about them, didn't I?" His whisper was high and gritty, like sandpaper against her ear. "Not yet, nope. We barely even _know_ each other." She kicked her legs, and the pressure on her small wrists increased.

"Wouldn't do that, Miss Wayne. It's just simply _not_...worth it." He leaned in close, and she turned her face from him.

 _Why is this happening?_

"If I take my hand off of that pretty little mouth, are you going to scream? Because uh, if you do, I'll cut it right off. What do you say?" She shook her head, and he lifted his palm slowly, fingers sliding from her cheek one by one. India shuddered.

"Look at me," he growled. She obeyed. "Ah, you are a _gem_. Bruce can't possibly keep it tucked for long, huh?"

"I-I don't understand," she squeaked.

"Of course you don't, simpleton. Doesn't really matter, yeah? I know he wants to uh, ship you back, so to speak."

"You're hurting me-"

"I wouldn't send you away, India. No, I'd keep you locked up all for myself." He paused, stroking her damp hair idly. "That's what I would do."

The menace behind those words proved tangible, as he pulled her from the bed violently. She hung from his grasp, legs desperately trying to hold up her weight. He snaked an arm around her waist, his heat bleeding through her thin gown.

"We're gonna take a little trip, India."


	4. Chapter 4

Things happened quickly. Too fast for her to retain or understand.

Being dragged by him through the hospital, a distant alarm, gunfire from the lobby.

From what she could tell, the Joker had led them to a maintenance hall of sorts, and down an elevator that opened up in the parking garage. It was dark and cold. The cement did her shoeless feet nothing good. Her back hurt more than words could convey.

His grip on India's arm ceased as he opted to hold her hand instead. She trailed behind like a flightless kite. Despite her fear, she found his gait to be funny and strange, and clothes utterly mismatched. Was it an attempt at looking ordinary?

Her lips pursed.

This man clearly did not fail at anything. If he looked such a way, it was purposeful.

"Where is Bruce?"

She felt her knuckles crack in his hand. "I suppose he's off someplace, uh, not giving a _shit_ about you."

"You're hurting me."

"Ah! _Imagine_ that!" He tugged her forwards, and she fell to the ground with a good thump. The stitches in her back pulled and puckered the healing skin. Blood pooled under one knee from new scrapes. The Joker giggled like a schoolboy, hoisting her up none too gently.

A screech and the smell of burnt rubber, then a black van, barreling down from the level above them, sending sparks and smoke into the air. India felt her stomach drop.

 _He really was taking her away._

The vehicle came to a loud halt before them, a door sliding open almost ceremoniously. She could smell cigarettes and booze. A hulking man in a mask jumped out, large gun hanging from his beefy shoulder.

"The Bat isn't far behind," the henchman hissed. India caught the odd glance he tossed in her direction. "We should move."

The Bat?

"Well, here is the thing about we."

India saw the gun appear in the Joker's hand. Heard the shot. Felt the recoil.

It was another moment that she seemed to miss, it's speed no match for her understanding, despite reacting. When she looked down to see her free hand clutching the clown's wrist, gun hanging from his fingers, it was too late to take it back. The bullet had gone off somewhere far away, past the garage and into the night.

Breathing erratically, shaking, she looked to her captor. He stared, eyes reflective and dark and more dangerous than anything she'd ever seen.

Her hand fell, and she swallowed hard.

"I-I didn't-"

"You did, India," he hissed slowly, tongue rolling across his scars. He turned to the goon, who stood hunched in the doorway of the van. Sweat trickled down his neck.

"Lucky man." His laugh was just as excessive as the rest of him. India felt his hand lightly curl against her back before giving her a hard shove forward. She tumbled into the van with a cry of pain, elbows falling onto rough, smelly carpet. Her stomach begged for release, but she held it down for fear of what he'd do with a sick girl.

The vehicle jostled as he jumped in behind her and shut the door. Tires skidded and then everything was in motion. India's body slammed against the backseats, and then everything began to slowly fade. There were voices, but none she recognized. Hands picking her up, and somebody yelling about her stitches.

The passing of time was distorted and sluggish. She felt herself being cradled.

 _Maybe Bruce was there. Maybe he saved her._

Fingers drifted across her forehead, moving through her hair rhythmically.

She hoped to God it was her brother because resigning herself to any other reality would surely drive her mad.

* * *

He didn't want her to die. Not at all. Dead bait was no good. Broken toys didn't bring in the kids.

So he put her on his lap and pet her like a kitten. No big deal. The men didn't even dare a quick glance their way.

Bait. Tie her to the end of a string and watch the city writhe in agony. Didn't need any more thought put into it than that, really. The flightless Bat was already sniffing around. It was going to make for a _lot_ of fun, despite him playing babysitter.

Below, face nestled against his leg, India murmured something. If he was a bargaining man, which of course he was, he'd guess she was whimpering about her impotent brother.

One could argue that man was worse than him. One could go further and say the games that asshole played were far more deviously than any of his own imaginings.

He saw the way he looked at her firsthand. No betraying a stare like that. Couldn't exactly blame him, but simpering little India had no idea.

The Joker sat back and sighed, resting a hand idly on her fleshy thigh.

She did smell nice.


	5. Chapter 5

"Need help with her?"

"Do I _look_ like I need help?"

The hulking mass of a man said nothing and left the van with a certain sort of fire under his ass. The Joker smiled, pleased with himself for reasons beyond count; least of all, striking juvenile fear into subordinates.

Supporting little India with one hand, he slid up and off his seat. Something unintelligible spilled from her mouth and the urge to laugh was akin to a feather on the back of his throat.

 _Ah, she'd be easier to deal with like this, right?_

He jumped out, the girl in his arms, and paused to look upon the skyline behind them, and the faint glow of those few strong stars that could push through the smog and light, and then at the abandoned building he found himself calling home. He walked on and into the sidelined monument, which appeared to have been a forge at some point in Gotham history. It smelled of metal and rust and decay. If he ever found himself in need of broken glass and jilted sheet metal, goddamn, would he be set.

The ground floor was designated as a storage site of sorts. Weapons, ammo, explosives, and men. Homeless men that'd been recruited, petty criminals that'd been enticed by considerable crime.

Four stories up, by way of coiled staircases and catwalks, was a row of offices that'd remained intact and halfway renovated to serve as living quarters. It wasn't the Hilton, but he had no real complaints.

India became significantly heavier after being carried up the stairs. His arms burned underneath her weight and irritation came soon after, but he kept a nonchalant pace to his room. Didn't need one of the men to notice him struggling.

Grunting and swearing under his breath, the Joker flung the girl atop one shoulder and opened the scrubbed glass door, slipping in quickly to finally let her body drop.

"Alright," he muttered, moving towards the large, angled bed. "Just…lay there." He dropped her unceremoniously onto the mattress. She bounced slightly, then curled in on her side. The clown waited for her to scream or cry or ramble on about Bruce, but she gave him nothing, and the disappointment was hard to ignore. He rubbed at the strained muscles of one shoulder and went to leave the room, but stopped and redirected himself to an adjoining bathroom, all the while obsessively dragging his tongue across his lips.

 _Makeup before the shoot._

* * *

"So, nobody goes in, yes?"

"Yes."

"She doesn't come out either, does she?"

"No, she doesn't." His gloved hand gave the hulking goon a playful pat on the back. He flinched.

"Good! Ah, lighten up, uh...whatever your name is. What _is_ your name?" The man looked at him uneasily, visibly gulping down a bubble of air.

"Kurt."

"I have a fucking _Kurt_ working for me?" The clown shook his head, pleasantly exasperated. "I mean, I want to kill you for walking around with that name for...how many years? Doesn't matter, and I won't. Just follow those two... _simple_...rules."

* * *

The voices outside the room went silent, and silence continued and finally, India felt it safe enough to cry.

It'd been so hard to hold back, when she'd abruptly woken up to the sounds of glass on porcelain, a faucet running gently, and a door that she couldn't see creak as it opened.

 _Keep still, keep quiet, please keep still…_

Until footfalls went through her prison and then out.

Her hands were not bound. Her feet were free. But she hurt, and the strange door that her captor had locked behind him was not going to yield to 120 pounds. The mattress she'd been dumped on was soft and more than inviting. It begged her to stay tight against it.

Crying softly, she reached a hand down and without looking, gathered up the bottom half of a blanket, pulling it over her legs left bare by the thin hospital gown.

No matter how long it had been since she was taken, Bruce had to know. He probably had everyone looking for her, being who he was.

But so was a bat. That's what someone had said.

 _"The Bat isn't far behind…"_

India pressed her face into the sheets and fought for rest, but found none.


	6. Chapter 6

"You could find her yourself, Bruce. I mean, as yourself." Rachel Dawes sniffled, stirring a cold mug of coffee rather feverishly. "You could leave it up to the police."

Bruce wasn't inclined toward nervous behavior. If anything, his stoicism only became more evident in the wake of extreme stress.

He knew she didn't like it.

"Do you trust the police, Rachel? To be uncorrupted or capable?" He stood up from the desk and began a calm pace about the office. "That freak has her. My sister. Do you get it?"

"Not by blood." Her voice bit with slight humor, and he knew that she meant to only lighten the wire-tight tension.

But it pissed him off.

"What do you want me to say? You...can't be with me. You can't be with Bruce Wayne and...what I become."

"What are you-"

"I want her back. My reasons are my own and the entire thing is for me to bear. I know what Dent can give Gotham but he is not capable of getting India back."

Resolve broke, and before he could steady the anger, his fist met the closest wall and easily punched straight through. Bruce heard her jolt in her seat. It gave him a strange wave of satisfaction. He pulled his hand back, bloodied and sore.

"He won't hurt her. She's worth more alive." Her voice shook gently and guilt rooted deep inside him, germinating at speeds beyond him.

"Imagine, Rachel."

"Imagine What?"

"Someone you love, being _stolen_ , like her." He didn't turn, but heard Rachel as she rose from the chair. A moment later, he felt her small arms around him and melted into the hold.

"I know what you're feeling." Her voice was light and beautiful, and carried comfort.

"You have Harvey. You have a whole life."

"My life _would_ have been whole, Bruce." He felt her chin settle just beneath his shoulders.

"I never should have let her come here."

"She's going to be alright. Her face is everywhere, and all it takes is one tip."

"From some witness who knows that they're better off not saying anything?" She gave him a light squeeze and sighed.

"You have faith in Gotham, Bruce. Don't lose it now."

* * *

From a dreamless and desperate sleep, India felt a hand shaking her without gentility. Just the simple act of opening her eyes caused pain.

"You rest heavy."

Through a haze, she saw the clown crouched above her, a leg and an arm at both her sides. For a quick moment, she wanted to laugh. It was so _silly_.

But her mouth went agape to scream, and his hand clamped down with bruising strength.

"Ah! Anybody who _can_ hear you, doesn't care. But uh, don't let that reflect on you." He leaned in, allowing clumped locks of his green hair to tickle her cheeks. "Front page news is what you are. Your brother has begun waging his infantile campaign for your safe return."

She stared up at him, white greasepaint flaking from his quirked brow and falling onto her cheek like dirty snow. With a strange grumble, his hand once again left her mouth and went to brush it away.

"It's time for the rules. Rule time!" The Joker set himself back on his haunches, keeping India tucked snuggly between his legs. The idea of kicking him crossed her mind briefly, but she was scared silent by the thought of him hurting her any more.

"Rule number one; this is my lovely room I'm keeping you in and I'd prefer if you didn't trash it or piss in the bed or anything like that. Yes?"

She nodded, inwardly cringing at the fact that it was his bed she'd been sleeping in.

"Rule number two! Uh, misbehavior on your part will result in punishment _equal_ to the offense. That one, I don't know, it sounds very cop-like, but it's necessary." He shrugged and shifted himself above her, backside resting uncomfortably on her shins. "Understand?"

"Yes."

"Three. If any of my men decide to pay you an unauthorized visit, which is any and all visits, you make sure I know about it."

"What?"

"You work slow, don't you?"

"I just-"

"You just need to say _yes_."

"Yes," She squeaked, hoping to God that he would get off of her legs and leave.

"What's the deal with your name?"

"My name?"

He dragged his tongue across his mouth. "It's like pulling teeth! _Yeah_ , your name." She swallowed, pink tinting her cheeks.

"I-I don't know, it's just...my name."

He sighed and rolled off.

"It's a goddamn country is what it is."

India quickly sat up, pulling her hiked-up gown back over her legs as best she could. She felt him watching her and shivered.

"Maybe I can find you something better than that to wear," he murmured, absently smoothing down the lapels of his purple jacket with spindly fingers.

"Or, uh, maybe Gotham General's paper dresses are what you feel prettiest in, hm?"

She stared, caught tightly between anger and hopelessness, annoyed with his nasal taunts.

"We'll figure it out, I'm sure. I'll leave you to your own sorry devices for now. Things to do, you see. Always... _something_ to be done." He moved towards the bricked glass door and peered over his hunched shoulder. "Bathroom is free to use, and I would if I were you."

"Why?"

"You look like shit."

* * *

He didn't really mean it. More like, she looked like shit compared to her sweet, sunny self he'd seen two days ago.

Worth that look, though. Wow, what...a... _look_. The most fire he'd seen in those virginal eyes yet. He half-expected an actual line of defense for that one.

"What next?" He thought aloud, perusing a rumpled copy of the Gotham newspaper, fixed on the grayscale photo stretching nearly the whole length of the page.

 _Sister of Gotham Magnate Missing!_

Had to hand it to them, it was a great picture. Crisp and clear, focused perfectly on India's beaming face. Clear enough to see each freckle.

He began to count them.


	7. Chapter 7

Hours passed before India felt confident enough to leave the sheets and slip into the bathroom, which was a disheveled wreck.

Old tracks of moisture stained each dark, chipped wall. The tiny clawfoot sink was covered in familiar paint, and the mirror above it was just clean enough for her to see a blurry figure looking back at her.

 _"You look like shit."_

"I suppose I do," she whispered to herself and went to inspect the shower behind the fogged glass door.

Cleaner than her imaginings, despite the green-ridden grout between most tiles. Not mildew.

She wondered how many times he'd dyed his hair, or put on his gruesome stagewear. Where the scars came from. All the _purple_.

India leaned against the glass and grabbed the knob. Water gurgled, then surged from the vertical showerhead. Something close but far from excitement sent goosebumps down her arms, and she quickly slipped the gown down her body, ignoring the resistance her wounded back put up. One tentative foot over the edge of the tub, then the other.

The water was hot. Wisps of steam swiftly became whole clouds. Sweat and grime were jostled free from her hair. Caked blood from her knee became wet, sending cherry streams down the drain, and she bit her knuckles to keep her from crying.

"You took my advice?"

She was so frightened, she slipped and fell to the porcelain. Huddled beneath the water, India slid the glass over barely an inch and peeked out. He was leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets. Gasping, she pulled back.

"Please! I, uh, I'm in the shower!"

"Really? _That's_ where you are?" he huffed. "You didn't lock the door."

"I didn't?"

"No, you didn't." She watched his silhouette move further in and waited, quaking and clutching her naked body.

"Found some clothes that'll work for now. Or, you can just prance around naked."

He was out the door before she could shoot back at him. Sniffling, India brought herself up on newborn legs and made quick work of scrubbing herself with a white bar of soap she'd found, glancing at the door every few seconds, then passively rinsed and stepped out. Sitting on the corner of the sink was a folded towel. Shivering, she grabbed it, and something underneath it tumbled to the floor.

A ratty pair of jeans and tee shirt. She scooped them up and hesitantly sniffed.

"Clean."

But not her underwear. She begrudgingly put them back on and pulled the jeans up her damp legs. They reached her waist, two sizes too big. The gray shirt was more of the same, short sleeves swallowing up her elbows. Still, she felt more comfortable and less like a mark.

She worked her fingers through her hair, freeing up knots as best she could, before taking a deep breath and opening the door just a crack. The room was dark. No sign of him.

Despite being alone, she walked lightly, studying the room she'd been thrown in for the first time. _His_ room.

It was spartan at best, walls the same color as the adjoined bathroom. A crooked dresser against the far wall and above that, a window. She moved to it and looked out.

Gotham laid bare in the distance, the top of each tower lighted and reaching towards the dark sky.

Her hands tested it. Bolted shut, probably not meant to be opened in the first place, and she wasn't even on the ground floor.

 _Of course._

The bed was large, covered in thick black sheets and blankets. One pillow. The only light source was a dirty wall-mounted sconce, outdated and cobwebbed.

She sat down on the bed, intending to keep her eyes on the door, but with no concept of time and not a single thing to do, India soon curled up against the single pillow and drifted off.

* * *

"What do we have to eat around here?"

"Not much, boss. Uh, pantry shit, cans and stuff."

"That's what you guys work off of?" The lanky subordinate looked around him and shrugged.

"Yeah, but we're low. We have someone that goes out for stuff everything month."

The Joker leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed.

"What guy?"

"Kurt, I think."

"For fuck's sake."

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing, moron? It just _figures_ , you know? Anything ever just _figure_ to you?"

"Yeah, I mean...yeah." He paused and scratched at what he probably thought was a beard. "Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm not. Go and get some uh, fruit or something."

"Fruit?"

"Yes. Fruit."

"For the boys?"

 _I'm going to kill him._

"If you don't leave right now, I'm going to plant a knife in your forehead." He flicked his own for effect. Watching him half-run to the door was mildly entertaining.

India Wayne was much more stimulating, however, and he found himself wondering if she was in need of a visit. Probably not, and other things needed to be done. Dent's televised conference concerning the girl was apathetic at best, but Batman was roughing up the scum of Gotham left and right, pressing for any rumors pertaining to her whereabouts. Dull. _Boring_.

More bombs? Tie her to some railroad tracks? FedEx a finger to Bruce?

He stood up from a desk made of lumber boards and crates, stretching.

"No IKEA shit here."

* * *

The Joker made his way up to the catwalks, passing men sleeping on cots, cleaning guns, playing cards. It was late, and cool Autumn air moved right through the building as if there were no walls at all.

From what he could tell, Kurt hadn't moved an inch. Admirable dedication, to an extent.

He sauntered over and poked his arm.

"Still alive?"

"Yes sir, I am," he replied tiredly, rubbing at his small, reddened eyes.

"Have you heard anything from in there?"

"She's none of my business, sir."

"That's a good answer." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, looking over the buffed-out Kurt with suspicion. "This is the only key to the room, correct?"

"Of course."

"Of course," he echoed, stepping inside. The goon closed it behind him.

India sat cross-legged on the bed, hands clasped together in her lap. The cloudy, titian light gave her an almost sultry look, casting shadows along her jawline and beneath her eyes.

He took off his jacket, tossing it on the bed. She jumped. He chuckled lightly.

"Off the bed, princess."

"Okay." India stood up, moving towards the wall he was farthest from. He watched, taking note of how ridiculously hopeless she looked in the clothes, then walked into the bathroom and rinsed his face with water from the sink. Watercolors dripped from his chin, then ran clear after another round. He avoided the mirror.

"Can I trust that you won't try anything, uh, _naive_ while I get some shuteye?" He called out, drying his face with the towel she'd used and ambling back out. She stood by the window, looking at him wearily. "Well?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No questioning my questions, please. Yes or no?" Her lips trembled, no doubt fighting back some tears.

"Yes."

"Good." He went to the bed and plopped down face-first, feet working to push his shoes off. The sheets smelled nice. Kind of like her. He grabbed at the pillow and tossed it to the side. "You can use this. Turn off the light." The room went dark a moment later. He heard her feet padding across the room, and the pillow being dropped on the floor. The sounds of her settling against the cold wood, and the occasional sniffle, until he fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't snore but breathed heavily in great puffs that whistled quietly against the bed. Every so often, he'd stir and the mattress would squeak.

She sat on the floor through the night, listening to the ambiance of the Joker, until his foot nudged the purple jacket onto the hardwood. She stared at it, rose up a bit to make sure he was still asleep, then pulled it towards herself with an outstretched toe. Her fingers glided over the material, much of it threadbare. She searched the pockets. They were empty.

Defeatedly, she turned to look at a sky beginning to lighten through the window, and with no hope of anything good to come from a new day, she fell back onto the pillow, purple jacket tucked around her like a blanket. It smelled like gunpowder and smoke. Threatening spices that, for reasons beyond her, eased the horror and fear she felt.

She didn't know how long it would be until whatever usefulness she had gone dry, when the searching inevitably stopped and Bruce forgot about her. What then? Would the Joker kill her? Sell her off? Offer her to the men at his command?

She didn't belong in Gotham, hadn't earned deliverance from a decade of solitude.

 _Allowed herself to be taken, pushed around, verbally assaulted._

And she was hungry. At least two days since she'd last eaten. Maybe he intended to starve her.

"I have fruit...coming," a voice murmured tiredly above her. "Your stomach is rumbling."

India looked up at the bed, but could only see his messy green hair and curved back.

 _Fruit?_

She chose not to reply, because it made her feel strange, and instead mulled over fruit until sleep came, purple jacket snug beneath her chin.

* * *

Never more than a few hours of rest. Even then, a constant circus traipsing about in his head that kept the rest of him from reaching deep unconsciousness.

And the girl on the floor, whimpering and fighting against her own nightmares.

It was well into morning. No plan for the day. No plan yesterday. Just sitting stupidly on a commodity with no schemes and no excitement.

The Joker sat up and rubbed at his curiously stiff neck. Why the _fuck_ did it hurt so much?

Rolling closer to the edge, he looked at India, who slept curled in a strange little ball.

Something jumped in his chest and he tried to weigh it back down, into the black and cold pit of his proverbial soul. No, it was _not_ endearing. She did _not_ look particularly angelic, and he was _not_ excited to wear the jacket that would smell like her henceforth.

"India." She sighed and rubbed her face against the pillow like a kitten. "India, get up." Louder.

"Class doesn't start…for another hour," she grumbled.

 _Okay_.

He stood up and nudged her leg with his foot. "School is out, moron." Her brown eyes shot open, her body following suit and giving a jolt.

"I...I, uh-"

"You what?" She sat up and looked at him, heavy-lidded and dazed.

"I don't know."

"Tell me."

"I was dreaming, I think," she whispered solemnly, holding out the jacket. He quirked a brow. "I'm sorry, it was cold."

"Yeah, well," he took it and shrugged it on, "...don't do it again."

 _Have to get her a goddamn blanket now._

He turned to leave but she piped up. "Is it...information that you want?"

"I'm sorry, princess?"

"Why you took me. Information about my brother? His company? Because I-I don't know anything, I've been in-"

"New Hampshire, Our Lady of Fatima Catholic Girl's School." She kept silent, but he could easily see her floundering. "I know all about you, though there's uh, not _much_ to know, and I _know_ that you don't have jack shit to give me concerning your pompous ass of a brother." He leaned down, a violent shimmer crossing his dark eyes. "I took you because I wanted to. Because I could."

"Oh."

He pulled back and went for his shoes, feeling her stare as though it was a warm hand grabbing at his back.

"You have thirty-nine freckles."

"What?"

"Thirty-nine freckles, give or take."

* * *

Thank you thank you thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

"No, this." The Joker held up the white plastic bag filled with bananas and kiwis and pointed to the blocky red letters bulging from the side. "Where do they get these bags?"

"I don't know, sir."

"More pertinent a question is _why_ you purchased nothing but fucking bananas and kiwis. It's weird, and India is allergic to kiwis." Kurt grimaced, shaking his head.

"Allergic to kiwis?"

"I should shoot you. I should just finally _shoot_ you and be done with it. Yeah, people are allergic to things."

"Should I go back out for more of um, a selection?"

"No, I'll send out someone else. Watch the door like a good boy." He spun on his heels and unlocked it, tossing the bag through without looking at his prisoner within.

* * *

She heard most of the conversation, though muffled, and watched the silhouettes of the clown and the man known as Kurt move behind the glass until the door opened and the _thank you thank you thank you_ bag was tossed in. India scooped it up quickly and picked out the bananas, wasting no time and eating one that she'd peeled with trembling fingers, and another, while she stared at the fuzzy fruit she couldn't have.

With her appetite more or less taken care of, she went into the bathroom and drank water from the faucet, then went back to the bed. The sheets were rumpled from his tossing and turning. Still warm.

She doubted even Bruce knew of her silly allergy. How did the Joker know?

India shivered, running her hands through tangled hair and staring at the plastic bag. Most interesting thing in the room.

She didn't notice the door opening because it had been done so silently, or the large man walk in with the grin of a predator spread across his stony face. He made sure the door was locked behind him and the key in his pocket before he spoke.

"Hey." She yipped like a fox and sprung up from the bed. "Oh, shit! I didn't mean to scare you, I just wanted to make sure you ate. Did you eat?"

"I-I don't think...you should be in here." Her words stumbled pathetically, and her feet brought her closer to the wall on instinct.

"No, it's okay. I was told to check on you," he replied smoothly, garnishing it with a soft laugh. "I'm Kurt."

"Okay."

"You're India, right?" Kurt moved further into the room, stuffing his beefy hands into his pockets.

"Yes, but-"

"See, that wasn't so hard. Just...friendly introductions, right? You're prettier than your picture." He clicked his tongue. "Beautiful."

She wanted to scream but _couldn't_.

"I want you to do something for me." The saccharine mask of empathy he'd worn began to slide from his face like some tangible liquid. "Strip."

"Please stop," India whispered hoarsely, hands clutched against her thumping chest. She watched him produce a knife from the pocket of his camouflage pants.

"Take your fucking clothes off."

"I'll do anything-"

"No, you'll do this, unless you want me to _cut_ something off." He tapped the blade against his thigh. "Start with the jeans."

It took a moment for her to realize that she was sobbing openly and pulling down the oversized pants. The disconnect, however, almost made what was happening even more real. The denim clung to her overheated skin, damp with nervous sweat. Kurt watched her try to shimmy them down with pleasure he didn't bother to hide, and once she finally stepped out of them, he pointed to the shirt. The strangled cry of something wounded spilled from her and his response was immediate; a slap across the face that nearly knocked her to the ground. As she went to touch her burning cheek, he grabbed the shirt and ripped it across. It fell to the floor in shreds and he tried for a handful of her but something pulled him back.

Things happened before India that she couldn't really see. Shapes struggling against each other and far away shouting that probably wasn't far away.

She stood, shaking, not watching or listening, until color and sound came back into focus and a voice was saying her name and purple spilled back into her spectrum.

"India?"

"Yes?" A hand on her arm. Iron grip.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Where d-did Kurt go? Where is...Kurt?"

"I threw him off the catwalk. Three stories."

His face pushed through the fog of shock, bare, without the ghastly paint. The face she'd seen above her in the hospital bed. He was close.

 _He?_

"The Joker."

"What? I mean, yeah, but _I_ didn't come with that bullshit name." He snapped his fingers. "India, you're almost completely naked. Did you... _know_ that?"

Slowly, she wrapped her arms around her heavy chest and sniffled.

"He told me to take my clothes off."

"Why didn't you scream or something?" he said angrily, stomping over to the bed and tugging the top sheet off. "Cover yourself." He held it out to her but she did nothing.

"Didn't know you had them there, too. A great big _splash_ of them."

"What?"

"Freckles. _Allll_ across your chest." He huffed, did the snake-tongue thing. "I'm sure Kurt noticed. Doesn't matter now. I heard his head...burst? For lack of a better word." India's breath hitched. Fire licked at her throat.

"Shut up."

"Take the sheet and I will. Maybe."

"Fuck you, _fuck_ you!" She screamed and lunged at him. They landed hard on the floor in a tangled mess, India screeching and crying as her fists beat against him. Her advantage didn't last long. He easily flipped her to the side, pinning her down with his own weight.

"Stop!"

"Calm the hell down!" He hissed. Her feverish body flailed and bucked against him until she had nothing left but tears and shallow hiccups. He stared down at her, more placid than she'd ever seen him. His eyes were deceiving. She'd believed them to be black, so _dark_.

But they weren't.

She went slack and turned away from him, suddenly very aware of her nakedness.

"Are you done?"

"Yes."

The Joker stood, dragging her up with him. He let her arm go but she quickly latched onto the front of his jacket.

"What is it?" He questioned, annoyed.

"I-I can't s-stand-"

"Here," he stopped her and pried the white-knuckled hand from him, holding it in his own while he led her to the bed. "Sit down." She did, hugging herself in hopes of erasing any memory of her exposure.

 _Impossible._

"I'll get some ice for your cheek." He tossed the sheet next to her and they looked at each other. Then he was gone and she was alone.


	9. Chapter 9

_Built like the fertile earth from which life sprung. Painted into the world from a flawless dream, softer than-_

"He was still like, a little alive, sort of. After he uh, fell."

"Didn't fall," he replied nonchalantly. "Going to _assume_ you all know that."

The half-bearded goon nodded excitedly. "Yeah, boss. Of course."

"No boss, no sir, no saluting or any other paramilitary _fucking_ bullshit, got it? Wanna spread that around for me?"

"You have a-a scratch or something on your face, sir-...eh, yeah a scratch." The Joker chuckled, continuing down the stairs.

"Last thing I need, right? Tell me where to find ice. Another thing. A little inventory action. Get a count on weapons and explosives."

"Are we doing something?"

"Yeah, something. Ice?"

"Old walk-in freezer by the back doors." The lackey pointed. "Anything else I can do?" The Joker stopped.

"As far as all of you fuckers are concerned, there is no hostage. There is _nobody_ in that room up there. And if you get curious? Cut your own balls off before I do."

"No curiosity here. Like, at all," he responded quickly, banjo-eyed. The Joker believed him, more or less. Just a kid.

"Good. What's your name? You _can_ answer this wrong. It is actually _possible_ for me to disagree." Half-beard tensed, glanced at a group of men walking by who were failing miserably at discrete eavesdropping.

"Uh, Dave? Dave. That's my name."

"That'll work."

* * *

" _You gave him some fake name?"_

" _Wasn't about to tell him my name is Ashley, okay?"_

* * *

She wasn't where he left her on the bed, or in the bedroom. More agitated than worried, he checked the bathroom and found her huddled next to the sink, sheet wrapped tight enough around her to be a second skin.

 _He had no reason to feel bad, spoiled bitch deserved a shot of reality, was probably asking for it, lost a good man because of-_

"India." She looked up at him. Remorse tried igniting, but he dumped water on _that_ shit as swiftly as possible.

A dark purple flower was blooming across her right cheek.

"Get up."

"Why are you doing this to me?" She whispered, clutching the sheet so tight he was sure he heard it rip.

"I told you. Because I can." He grabbed an arm and hoisted her up, pulling her very close. "Haven't you ever, for a single moment, wanted to watch it all burn?" She shook her head, tears spilling freely.

"Why would I ever want such a thing?"

"I guess that's the difference between all of _you_...and me. I told you in the hospital. I wouldn't send you away." He led her out into the bedroom. "I'm going to uh, dangle you around like the proverbial carrot." India tried tugging away from him, but he didn't feel any real intent behind it.

"I'm not a carrot."

"Sit." He pointed to the bed and she did so without question as he dug around in his jacket pocket for the rag filled with ice. "For that shiner." She recoiled.

"I don't want it."

"Spoil those classic good looks?"

"Stop teasing me."

"I'm not."

After a silent battle of wills, India begrudgingly took the makeshift ice pack, brushed away the tears and touched it to her cheek. She winced.

"Did you really...throw-"

"Did I kill him? Yes."

"Someone is dead because of me." He scoffed and slipped off the purple jacket.

"Can't help but wonder _why_ you would care whether that animal lived or died." The hexagons on his shirt warped with the nimble fingers unbuttoning it, green suspenders snapping free from his shoulders. "Is it an act? Do you pretend to be that...forgiving, like the whole of our society?"

Her face scrunched, tears perched by nothing more than air on the tips of her lashes.

"Do you pretend that you're not an animal?"

"Sure don't." He chuckled and pulled off the shirt. "Wear this until I find something else." Her eyes went wide and he found himself remembering her breasts, splashed with freckles.

"I'm...I'm not-"

"You are." The Joker tossed it as he headed towards the bathroom. "I'd appreciate some privacy. If you peep, you join."

* * *

The shirt reached almost to her knees. It was softened from overuse and small threads stuck out from most of the buttons. India wondered if it was the only one he had. Pipes groaned in the walls as the shower began to gush.

She'd known he was at least solid; hitting him had been like hitting stone.

Shirtless, he was lean and coiled with strained muscles. She didn't understand how a man could put on a costume and talk like a movie villain and look like _that_ underneath it all. Thinking about it made her face uncomfortably hot.

She stood up slowly and went over to the jeans she'd been forced to take off. Now, she didn't want to put them on. They reeked of humiliation. A reminder that even in the Joker's holding cell, she wasn't safe from the monsters in his employ.

But it was cold and he'd seen enough of her already. She pulled them on and breathed shakily, glancing out the window to get a sense of what time it was. Almost evening, maybe.

Was Bruce worried for her? Did he maybe not care at all? After so many years, she could be just another stranger to him. He certainly was to her, in a way. What few memories she had of their childhood together were vague, but she remembered wanting to be a big girl, like Rachel, and how she would tell Bruce to let her tag along with them.

India thought they'd end up married. He'd always loved Rachel, even as a little boy. During their short reunion, he'd made no mention of her, and she hadn't seen a ring.

Thinking about everything made her heart feel leaden and dark. Frustrated, she sat down on the edge of the mattress and massaged her temples until the bathroom door flew open and released a comically large plume of steam. Something inside begged her to smile, even laugh, but she kept her mouth straight and still.

Until he sauntered out. Green hair dripping, towel wrapped around his hips, the damp sheen on his face giving prominence to the scars.

It wasn't funny. It was terrifying.

"What?" He threw up his hands, eyebrows raised. India swallowed and lowered her eyes.

"Could you uh, put some clothes on?"

"Gee, thought we had a real _intimacy_ going on-"

"Please stop teasing me."

"Please stop making demands, princess, because I have a project for you and if you keep _this_ up, you'll go back to staring at the wall and being uh, teased." India brightened.

"Project?"

"You took some fancy art courses." The Joker began pacing around, looking at her carefully and licking his lips. She felt a chill.

"I-I suppose."

"Painting? Know how to use paints?"

"Yes?"

"Great!" He clapped his hands and ran into the bathroom. India could hear his bare feet slapping on the tile. When he came out, his arms were full of tubes and jars of greasepaint. He dropped them on the floor in front of her. His juvenile glee was palpable, like confetti she couldn't see.

"Think of this as a test. Pass this and uh, you get to do something a little more advanced!" Before she could protest, he sat down next to her. Close. When she tried to move away, a hand grabbed her leg.

"Paint my face."

"Oh, I...I can't do that." Anger flashed across his face. The grip on her leg tightened. "I don't have brushes," she explained quickly.

"Not a problem until you make it one, India. Use those cute little fingers."

* * *

Her touch was remarkably gentle. He'd never felt anything quite like it. Reluctance seemed to fade as she went on, applying an even white mask to his face until she dipped a finger into the clotted red paint meant for his lips. The joker scooted closer.

"This should help," he murmured. "My shirt is very becoming on you."

 _Oh, that rattled her._

"Do you want the...the scars done?" She whispered, warm breath fanning over his cheeks.

"Yes."

She peered at him, dusky lashes fluttering.

If he touched them, would his skin come back sooty?

She started from the left, tenderly applying bright red to his raised skin, eyes sparkling beneath her curly bangs. Worked her way carefully across, endlessly blushing.

The thrill it gave him was indescribable. Each cell in his body was on fire, every nerve alert. His hand remained on her leg, and through it all, he wanted so badly to bring it farther up, towards something utterly beyond his grasp.

But he wasn't Kurt. Maybe a murdering schizoid but _nothing_ like Kurt.

When she seemed satisfied with his mouth, her attention turned to his eyes. He closed them to let her work, wondering what way she might be looking at him when he couldn't see her do so.

"Alright," India sighed. "Done, I suppose." The Joker blinked.

"Fantastic. Can't wait to see." He gave her knee a small squeeze and stood up, adjusting the towel that was beginning to slack dangerously before running back into the bathroom.

A quick swipe of his hand to clear the mirror and one look and he was storming back out.

"India, care to tell me what you did to my face?"

"I don't know!" She yelped defensively.

"You painted me like a clown. Like I've fallen off a _fucking_ circus wagon!"

"But isn't that what...you usually do?"

"You're unbelievable." She went to protest, but something happened. She stopped herself and gulped, the corners of her lips quaking.

Trying not to smile.

"You think this is funny? It's a joke?" Her hand flew up to her mouth, hiding the grin that made her eyes glimmer with unmistakable mischief.

It looked good on her. Pissed him off but it looked _good_.

"Ah, fuck you. Just sit there while I get this off."


	10. Chapter 10

After washing off, he'd left the room without a word. India took the chance to rinse her hands and get out the laughter she'd held in. It had not been her intention to make him look so ridiculous, but it felt so good to be filled with something other than dread. She was going to keep that humor close to her for as long as possible.

"Proverbial liferaft," she said to herself and laughed again. Laughed until she was doubled over, clutching the sink with tears in her eyes. Eventually, she straightened out and looked in the mirror, ignoring the bruise. Her eyes went small and serious. She cleared her throat and in the best Joker voice she could muster, "...circus wagon."

Tears streamed down her face as she clutched the sink for support. Once she gained composure, something like guilt or shame began to fester.

"Stop that. Now. You can...laugh at him if you want," she spoke to the girl in the mirror; the hurt, confused woman shrunken beneath her captor's clothes.

 _Not very convincing._

* * *

It didn't take long for him to return. Sitting in her usual spot on the sunken bed, India watched him barge through the door with stuff tucked underneath his arms and a plastic bag hanging precariously from one elbow. He slammed the door shut with his foot and dropped his haul on the floor. A full-length mirror, sizeable canvas and paints and brushes.

"No more jokes now, India. You want to uh, be an artist, don't you?" Carefully, she edged herself back to the opposite end of the mattress.

"I don't think-"

"You're right! You _don't_ think! You listen." He licked his lips, picked up the mirror and carried it over to the window without looking away from her. "I think right… _here_ will work just fine." He leaned it against the pane and nearly danced over to where India sat, who looked on in fascinated bewilderment. The Joker held out his hand. "Come here."

She carefully took it. He pulled her up and led her over to the mirror, and they looked at each other and themselves for a moment. He stood behind her, close enough for his warm breath to move past her ear.

Then closer, his chest against her.

"I want you to paint yourself."

"What?"

"I _want_ you...to paint yourself on that canvas. For Bruce."

His thumb moved gently across her own.

"That's crazy," she whispered.

"Think of it as a gift." She swallowed hard and looked away from him. "Without your clothes. I'll leave the room if you'd like."

"No."

Laughing, he pulled back spun her around to face him.

"India, I'll hurt you if you don't. And if that isn't enough for you, I'll hurt other people." She blinked.

"You're still in a towel."

"Lucky for me, you won't need that shirt much longer." He sauntered into the bathroom and returned with his pants and shoes. "Take it off. I'll turn around."

 _"Take off your clothes."_

"No! Just...please! Don't make me do this!"

"Come _on_ , India. What, Kurt? Getting flashbacks?" He huffed.

Then something softer crossed his face for a moment, blurring the harsh lines of his scars and furrowed brow.

"When I'm out that door, I want you stripped and ready to create a fucking masterpiece. Understand?" He stormed away, leaving the room.

In nothing but that _damned_ towel.

India flung herself against the bed and screamed as much as she could into the sheets, crying harder than she thought possible.

Hurt other people. Strangers? His men?

 _Bruce?_

Breathing heavy and quick, she stood up and wiped her heated cheeks with shaking hands.

 _Fine_.

* * *

It took her a bit to mix the paints. The palette he'd provided was small and cheap, but the paint was of a quality she'd never had the chance to use.

Satisfied as much as her conscience would allow, India took off the shirt. Her underwear slid down with the jeans and with a steadying breath, she turned towards the mirror.

Never truly having the privacy to look at herself in such a way, her naked body felt very separate and strange. She stared at the dip in her waist that flared at her hips and the dusky color of her nipples. The fleshy bit of skin between each arm and breast. The bone of her ankle and the line of her legs.

A nude portrait of herself. It was absolutely ridiculous.

She laughed nervously and picked up the canvas, balancing it against the side of her stomach, and reached for the palette.

* * *

He leaned against the door. The door that led to her.

A day and night. That's what he'd given her. No grocery deliveries or idle visits, despite the constant and incessant want to see her painting.

He'd seen the portfolio she'd put together for art school. Appreciated her classic strokes and muted colors. When the idea had occurred to him, there was no letting it go.

The Joker knocked lazily.

"Are you done?"

She didn't reply and he sure as shit didn't need permission. He unlocked the door and stepped in.

She sat on the bed, back to him, unmoving, staring at the canvas that'd been such a pearly white. He followed that gaze and crept closer.

The perfect image, the very meaning of her. Perfectly transposed. Sad eyes and unruly hair and warm color. Hidden talent and intellect, diluted by an offhand upbringing.

He was so close, his nose almost grazed the wet colors. With a spin of his heel, as nonchalant as he could bear to make it, he looked back at her.

"You have no clue, do you?"

"No, I don't think that I do," she sighed. There were faint half-moons of darkness beneath her eyes and paint caked on one side of her chin. "I'm very tired."

"So am I."

"Does it look odd?"

"The painting?" She nodded.

"No, it doesn't."

The Joker could have sworn that every bit of himself was utterly bare in the light of the look she gave him. As if she knew all there was to know. About him and everything else.

Each cell in his body wanted to rush towards her and experience whatever heaven she had to offer.

But he found himself simply kicking off his shoes and settling down on the bed beside her, a painful chasm of space between them. Not long after, he felt her lay back and curl into herself, as she always did.

"We'll uh, share the bed tonight."

"Okay."

* * *

 _ **'India'**_

 _ **By Pink Rhythm**_

 _ **1985**_


End file.
